


Telling stories by the fire

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of past abuse, Redemption, and i think they have a lot in common, and they'd be an awesome kickass team, if you happen to hate grant ward this story isn't for you, life screwed both mike and ward, when you put a good apple in a basket full of bad apples, you'll get a bad apple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike never liked that saying about the road to hell and good intentions. If you had good intentions, you kept your head straight and record clean, did your best and didn't need any excuses later. That was Mike Peterson in his early twenties. Ask him about hell and good intentions a few years later, and he'd tell you how bad a person could screw up if they were desperate. Add desperation and bad choices would start looking awfully like good intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telling stories by the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstridV](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridV/gifts).



> I was inspired by [this amazing artwork](http://astrid-v.tumblr.com/post/92180223372/well-here-it-is-a-mock-comic-cover-for-my-season) by **astrid-v** on tumblr.

Mike never liked that saying about the road to hell and good intentions. If you had good intentions, you kept your head straight and record clean, did your best and didn't need any excuses later. That was Mike Peterson in his early twenties. Ask him about hell and good intentions a few years later, and he'd tell you how bad a person could screw up if they were desperate. Especially if there was another mouth to feed. 

Yeah, add desperation and bad choices would start looking awfully like good intentions. Best intentions, in fact. All Mike wanted was a decent living and to be someone his son could look up to. What he got? A metal skull, a mechanical arm, a camera inside his eye and a reflection he couldn't look at. Not because he was ugly. But then, one thing Mike always believed in and never stopped was that thing about being alive and still having a task to do. So the only thing he could do now? Was fix the shit that John goddamn Garrett made him do. And that was how he ran across Grant Ward once, twice, and then over and over again. 

That piece of scum, Mike had thought. He was everything Mike learned not to like and not to trust – an entitled white boy whose parents probably had too much money. He didn't have any excuse – he followed Garrett because he wanted to, he was concerned about the jerk, and he was freaking out at the thought of not following him. Add all the lies on top of that and there you had a completely disgusting human being. 

Except. 

There was that thing about people looking at you and seeing your skin, your color, your goddamn cheap clothes, when you wanted to be seen as a man and nothing else. 

There was also the fact that Ward didn't even try to shoot at him, that he apparently was after all those creeps he and Garrett let out of the Fridge, and that he didn't even kill those men. He left them nicely tied up for Coulson to find, he could have even put a goddamn ribbon on them as well. Things didn't add up. But they kept running into each other, as if they were competing who'd clean up the mess faster. Mike had a chance to shoot him but he didn't want to shoot him, and Ward, with a mask of something dark and distrustful in his eyes had a perfect chance to shoot Mike, but he ran away instead. 

Not a kind of thing you'd expect from a guy you nearly killed. 

Of course there came a day when they raided the same Hydra hideout and it didn't turn out as either of them planned. Pinned back to back with Ward, Mike was glad that the bastard was a perfect shot. (Like he didn't hear that over and over during his training. _You're lucky he shot at you, Mike._ Yes, what a fucking lucky guy he was.)

“You're a pain in the neck, man,” Mike said after he shot at another Hydra goon. “I'm tired of running into you.”

“Yeah?” Ward said. His voice didn't sound the way Mike remembered. Not that he was the man Mike remembered. “Same here.”

At the end Ward cleared the way for them, but ended up shot in the leg. Nothing too bad, but it slowed him down. Mike didn't think about helping him out of there or not, he threw Ward over his shoulders, despite the protests and marched out. 

“You should have left me,” Ward had said. And Mike shook his head, because he wanted to have something decent remaining inside him. 

“Yeah? How would that help?” 

Ward didn't answer. 

Mike figured out the answer soon enough. The bastard was depressed or something. He generally thought his life wasn't of any worth, so he didn't care if he died – as long as he got to catch Hydra agents or former Fridge captives and (nearly religiously) deliver them to Coulson. 

He even watched the team pick them up. That was kinda weird until Mike read Ward's carefully composed face. So, if Mike knew a guy who harbored guilt and regret, it was Grant Ward. That didn't make him nice company, far from it. He was mistrustful, quiet and most of the time miserable. He covered it with anger (which wasn't fake, just easier to deal with), however that was a sentiment Mike shared. They were two angry guys together, which didn't make them friends, but it did make them a scary team. 

So, come one month, and then another and another – after you've shared coffee and bread with someone, patched them up (and they did the same for you), and saved each other's skin a couple of times, things changed. One couldn't walk through hell and come out looking like an angel, Mike knew that. 

“Look,” Mike said as he stitched Ward's left arm again. “I can't go in there and do my thing if you're going to act like those guys blowing you up doesn't matter.”

“Why should you care?” Ward asked through gritted teeth. Seriously, what was up with this guy and pain? It was like he didn't have a pain threshold. 

“Because I do,” Mike said and finished his work. 

Later, as they sat in a diner in the middle of nowhere drinking coffee, Ward looked outside the window, stared nowhere and started to talk. 

“It's not that I want to die,” he said. Then he looked at Mike. Like, really looked. “I don't want to live like this.” 

Like what, Mike asked, but didn't get an answer until later. Days and weeks later. 

Ward was a closed off dude. He opened up when he was angry, or when Mike least expected it. 

Riding in an empty cargo wagon of a train was kind of nice. And quiet, if you ignored the sound of the train. So when Ward spoke, Mike almost didn't register. 

“He was like my father,” Ward said. 

“Who?” asked Mike. 

“John.”

It took Mike a few moments to realize that Ward was talking about Garrett. The way he said man's name was also telling. Like John goddamn Garrett was someone worth mentioning. Remembering. _Grieving after._

Why?

“How come?” Mike asked, shifting his weight, grateful for the loose clothes and the hood covering his head – both for the cover and protection from the cold evening air. 

“He saved me,” Ward said, staring into nothing, It seemed he was able to talk about these things only if he was looking at nowhere, instead of somewhere. Or someone. 

“From whom?” 

“Myself,” Ward said. 

Now, that didn't make any sense, but Ward didn't say anything more on the subject. 

However, it bothered Mike enough for days (really, what kind of mess one would have to be, for John Garrett to _save_ them??) so he finally ended up asking. 

“How old were you when you met Garrett?”

“Sixteen,” Ward answered without a twitch and continued to paint the wall in front of him. They were taking any kind of manual jobs they could, because neither wanted to steal. (Mike didn't really know how and Ward did, but he wasn't going to, except if he figured Mike needed something. Like those new boots? Mike yelled at him for an hour and Ward didn't understand what he did wrong. 

_You stole someone's shoes, that's what's wrong_ , Mike said, but Ward didn't understand. 

_Which part of 'stealing is wrong' you don't get?_

Ward swallowed. He said, survival sometimes includes stealing. 

_Well, I don't wanna survive like that_ Mike said. And the way Ward looked at him was hard to describe.)

Mike gave Ward a narrow look. “How did you meet him at sixteen?” 

“I was in a juvy,” Ward said as was his style – blunt, no prettying things up. 

“You were what?”

“In a juvy,” Ward had that quiet, seemingly patient, but in fact angry style of communication. It was often like talking to a cactus. 

“Why were you in a juvy?” Mike asked, and noticed that he sounded more like Mike Peterson and less like Mike – turned – homicidal – cyborg – on - a – remote. 

Ward's hands stilled. 

“I set the house on fire. My parent's house,” he said before Mike was able to ask about the house. 

Okay. Okay, hold up. Mike stopped working too, and Ward was looking down, standing there in front of that half painted wall like a goddamn sixteen year old. That was how he looked. He was actually older than Mike – three years to be exact – but right now he didn't seem like a grown up man at all. 

“Why the hell would you set your house on fire?” 

Ward looked up, briefly. 

“Not mine,” he said. “My parent's house.” 

They continued that conversation days later. More accurately, Mike kept asking questions. At this point he had too many questions and too little answers and kept thinking about the things he learned about Ward shortly after joining SHIELD. Wealthy parents, military school, didn't talk to his family, didn't talk to fellow agents, preferred working alone. Efficient, but nobody liked him. For a reason. He didn't want to be liked. That was what people saw. They didn't need to feel bad for not wanting to see more, because Ward didn't want to be liked anyway, right? (When you spent your life keeping your head down, not speaking up because you needed that goddamn job, people often felt they didn't have any obligation to give you a chance to speak.)

“What did you mean your parent’s house? Didn't you live there too?” 

Ward snorted. Like that was something unimaginable. Like Mike was asking ridiculous things. (Mike wanted nothing more but to put his arms around Ace and hold him tight and never let him go.)

“Well, no. Yes. I used to.”

“You _used to_?” 

Ward nodded solemnly. Threw a branch into the fire he built for them. (He was scary good at all the wilderness related things – finding shelter, building shelter, building fire, finding food. Not something Mike would expect from once Ivy League type of kid.)

“I wish I didn't. Military school was frankly a relief.” 

“Military school?” 

“Yeah,” Ward said, poking the fire with another branch. Changed his voice into a caricature of someone who spoke as if they took themselves too seriously. “The best method of fixing such a disappointment of a son.”

Mike frowned. Looked at him – the epitome of tall, strong, privileged white guy who ought to have everything he wanted. Except, when Mike thought of Ward's privilege, he could only shudder at the very idea of having the kind of life Ward had. And he didn't even know much about it. 

“If your older brother can beat the shit out of you and scare you into doing things, then you're not a very worthy son – material,” Ward said. 

“That,” Mike said and paused, realizing his insides were clenching. In anger. “That is fucked up.” 

“Right,” Ward said. 

“So they sent you to military school,” Mike said. “How did you end up burning the house down?” 

Ward usually closed off at this point. One question too many and the conversation was over. Except the fire seemed to distract him. He gave the flame a bitter look. 

“Maynard,” he said the name like it was something cold and strange, “that's my older brother – he pushed Katie into a wall. Katie is the youngest. She used to paint. She never bothered Maynard, but he – he's a jerk. You didn't need to bother him,” Ward's breathing became shallow and quick. He was usually good with words, but now they were running into one another. It was like listening a story he didn't know how to tell, or maybe didn't tell to anyone in a long, long time. “He's a jerk. And he pushed her. She hit her head. And -” 

When words finally abandoned him, Ward waved a hand in front of his face. His eyes. 

“She ended up blind?” Mike asked. 

Ward nodded. 

“I wasn't there,” he managed, quietly. 

“You think you'd be able to stop him?” 

Ward shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. I was bigger, heavier than Kate.” 

“You were a _kid_ ,” Mike said, but that felt like talking about sanity to a crazy person. 

“I should have protected her,” Ward countered. 

Now that, that made Mike shudder. That sounded exactly like the guy who asked John Garrett for orders. 

Desperate. 

“Your _parents_ should have protected her,” Mike said. Was he really doing this? Was he stuck with a thirty two year old, playing a role of his father? 

“My parents were skiing in fucking Switzerland,” Ward said through his teeth, finally letting that anger show. And he had loads of anger. A shitton of anger. “They came back when they got a call about the fire.” 

Mike didn't say anything to that. There was a bad, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he thought he'd burn that goddamn house down as well. And then he remembered how disgustingly persuasive and charming Garrett could be and could easily imagine how that looked good to a desperate kid of sixteen. 

However, in reality, the monster that Garrett was couldn't have possibly bring anything good into Ward's life. Mike didn't even need to imagine much, if at all. The proof was sitting next to him after all. 

 

*

Mike Peterson used to think the worst about Grant Ward. Ward acted like a traitor, didn't he? He turned his back to everyone who was ever good to him, refused all those second chances he was given and chose to be a bad guy. Didn't he? Because he was that sort of a guy you can't force to do anything, right? He didn't have a fucking bomb inside his head and he didn't have a kid in crazy man's custody. All he had to do was walk out, right? Embrace the truly good people and all that crap. That was what people saw – just like they saw a black man in cheap clothes who didn't even finish high school and now was struggling to get a job. (Nobody asked why he didn't finish high school. Nobody asked how he had to work at fifteen and didn't have time to read their Shakespeares and that stuff). Ward maybe did read that stuff, but Mike doubted he understood it. Hell, he thought stealing was okay if you had to survive. That was how Ward understood the world. The point in the whole thing was, Ward thought he had to _survive_. And when a person is desperate, good intentions and bad choices look awfully alike. 

Blink and you'll find yourself in hell.


End file.
